The Price of Magic
by The Mirthful Menace
Summary: Raistlin Majere plays a deadly game of chess against the Queen of Darkness, levying his greatest weapon, the magic. But Raistlin's health is fragile, and the magic is burning away his defenses even as it destroys his adversaries. Meanwhile, Takhisis waits in the shadows, a deadly snake waiting to sliver through the tiniest crack and destroy him in an instant.
1. Pretty Mirrors, Deadly Shards

_**Author's Note: **Hello, readers! This is my second dragonlance fanfiction, and I'm planning for it to be a biggie. Basically this covers Raistlin's early days in the Tower, Caramon's letter, and Dalamar's introduction as his apprentice. Who knows, I may even go one to briefly summarize the Twins Trilogy from Raistlin's point of view. Either way, it will probably end up being 30+ chapters. No hiatuses - I don't do that shit. I've gotten too attached to unfinished fanfics in the past to pull that crap on people. Updates will probably come at least once a week, unless I'm away of course, and in such cases I will try to post an extra chapter in advance. I will aim for each chapter to be at least 1,000+ words, except in the case of this introductory chapter. I've tried to put this in the same tone as the Dragonlance books, but, even so, please recognize that I am not Margaret Weis or Tracy Hickman, and thus, cannot fully mimic their manner of writing. Anywho, before I make myself look like anymore of a stick-in-the-mud, I shall proceed with the disclaimer, and (finally) the chapter. I hope you enjoy my story, and please please PLEASE drop some reviews along the way. We fanfic authors thrive on reviews - it is by the power of critiques alone that I set my story in motion (for the Dune fans out there). :D On we go, before I continue my rambling!_

_**Disclaimer:** No, Margaret Weis didn't make an account, nor did Tracy Hickman. This is just me, piggybacking off of their awesomeness. Raistlin & Co. do not belong to me! (This disclaimer applies to the entire story, I'm not going to post it with each new chapter.)_

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><p>The people of Palanthas were a proud lot, dazzled by their own beauty and self-virtuousness. The War of the Lance had shaken the people greatly, but it could not change the inner nature of Palanthas's citizens. Within a few weeks, the people had buried the horrors of the war, smoothed the soil on top of the memories so they would not come back to haunt them. Content, they convinced themselves that it was a one-time occurrence, that Paladine would not let Palanthas the Beautiful to come to harm. Beloved of the gods were they, and, thus, safe and prosperous they would remain. Within a few more months, the city itself had returned to normal, supporting their delusions and assuaging any vestigial fears. Soldiers either deserted or were discharged to return to their wives and families, and those that remained became a part of a small force existing only as a sentiment. To the people of Palanthas, the existence of any martial force, regardless of how small, was superfluous, an extraneous waste of tax-payers money.<p>

All the same, the majority of Palanthas's population remained self-satisfied, content in the knowledge that the war was over and that Paladine had returned to watch over his chosen. Turning her face away from the stark brutality of the war and the ravages it had inflicted upon Krynn, Palanthas looked back to her mirror, admiring her reflection in blunt grandiosity.

Yet…there were some within the city who remained uneasy. Not only had Paladine returned to the world, but also had Takhisis, the Queen of Darkness, Queen of All Colors and None. Those wise enough to look past Palanthas's glittering beauty saw dark times ahead, fraught with danger and terror. Peace had come, only at great price, and those with half a brain could see that it would not last.

Even in Palanthas, darkness lay, doing nothing to ease the disquiet of these more reflective occupants. Adjacent to the Temple of Paladine lay Palanthas's Dark Tower, forming an enigmatic yin-yang despised by those of Palanthas who aimed for the eradication of all evil and darkness. This Tower was guarded by the infamous Shoikan Grove. Few were brave enough to even look at the Tower, but a select few, such as kender, whose intrepid souls allowed for little in the way of fear, were audacious enough to even attempt entry. The Shoikan Grove thwarted all such attempts, however. Only with the permission of the owner could one pass through Shoikan Grove without being sucked dry by the undead guardians who called the Grove home. Otherwise, the Grove inspired such fear in outsiders that they were unable to even go near it, much less come into contact with one of its guardians.

Thus, the people of Palanthas lived, ignoring the darkness surrounding them and within them, and living in beautiful isolation. Some grumbled about the continued presence of the Tower in the city, but none offered any suggestions about what was to be done about it.

And, meanwhile, the master of the Tower was able to continue his studies undisturbed, preparing for his next move in the dangerous game of chess he maneuvered against his lethal foe.

The first call of 'check' would shake the world of Krynn to its roots, cracking the lady's mirror and sending the deadly shards raining down to strike Palanthas in her pretty heart.


	2. You Forgot the Spoonfull of Sugar

Lunitari was full this night, and Solinari a waxing crescent, adding a silver hue to the ruby moonlight bathing Palanthas.

Solinari willingly shed light upon most of Palanthas, illumining the Temple of Paladine especially in its effulgence. Once it came to the edge of Shoikan Grove, however, it halted, shying away from the darkness of the Tower.

The forces of light and good were not welcome there.

Neutrality, however, may go where it pleases, and thus Lunitari invited herself into the Tower. A beam of scarlet entered through the paned window of the study, falling across the richly embroidered carpet on the ebony floorboards, decorated with fanciful woven illustrations of fauna and flora.

The room was newly refurbished – cobwebs and centuries-old dust had been swept away, to be replaced by extravagant furniture and décor. Plush chairs of the finest materials and construction were conveniently situated around the study, although, by the looks of them, they were barely used.

Elegantly carved wooden tables were placed here and there, and rare objects of different sizes and sorts, beautiful and ghastly alike, ornamented the room. A huge bookshelf covered the expanse of an entire wall, filled to the brim with books and scrolls, histories, spellbooks, lore, sciences, etc. On the other side of the room, a smaller, yet not any less ornate, bookshelf stood, this one occupied by a number of night-blue tomes, etched with silver runes. Around the room, yet more books sat in haphazard piles, standing precariously in piled heaps on the tables.

An expansive, gaping fireplace stood in an alcove at the far end of the room, what once had been a roaring fire diminished to glowing red hot coals and a few sputtering flames. An occasional angry pop and hiss accentuated the silence that filled the study.

Lunitari bared all of this in vermillion light, illuminating the figure sitting at a huge, intricately carved desk of black wood at the far end of the room. A sliver of crimson fell across gilded fingers, long and delicate, which lay splayed on the open page of one of the dark blue books.

Suddenly, a hiss of frustration pierced the silence, the fingers clenched in sudden anger and turned the cover of the book to slam it shut. Resisting the urge to throw it across the room, knowing that the action would do little good, Raistlin reclined further in the high-backed wooden chair behind the desk, steepling his fingers to glare at the book through narrowed eyes, as if to communicate his dissatisfaction to the inanimate object.

He had spent the entire afternoon trying to decipher this spell, but still the words refused to come together. Every time he thought he had it, he would realize that the pronunciation of 'a' was incorrect, that it had to be 'aa,' not 'ah.'

Tiredly, Raistlin rubbed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. In his days of youth, during his campaigning and mercenary work, he had been forced to learn spells quickly to keep up with the fast pace of the mission. But now, even though a strong sense of urgency guided his actions, he found that he progressed sluggishly, taking a few hours or more to learn one spell. True, these were the spells of Fistandantilus, they were highly complex and incredibly difficult to understand and cast, but he should not be delayed so! Takhisis grew ever bolder with every day that passed, every minute he spent poring over spellbooks was a moment she spent watching, thinking, planning…

He shook himself. Takhisis could not enter here – Nuitari protected this place from all, even his own mother. He was safe, for the time being. But how long would that safety last? This was hardly the time to press the limits of his power over the Dark Queen – if she came to face him now…he shivered, against his will, at the horrors that idea presented.

No, Master of Past and Present or not, if Takhisis managed to break through his defenses, if it came to a battle between the two, at least at this point, he would not stand a chance.

Abruptly, Raistlin's train of thought was cut off as he noticed the scarlet moonlight tracing his hand. Snatching his hand out of the light as if it had been burned, Raistlin retreated slightly into the darkness. Since he had adopted the black robes, he had pointedly avoided looking at the red moon, or even mentioning Lunitari's name.

Truth be told, he still felt a bit guilty for betraying Lunitari and casting off the red robes.

He had nothing against the goddess, in fact Lunitari had aided him greatly in his studies and in his trials. But, in the end, Raistlin owed loyalty to no one but himself. He had donned the black robes, an act born of logic and reason….to serve him in his quest for power.

It would be easier if the goddess had shown any sign of anger or pity when he had joined the ranks of the Black Robes. But no, he had detected no such feelings from the goddess. If anything, she had simply seemed…resigned.

Disappointed, even.

A slight snarl twisted Raistlin's features as he stood up suddenly, nearly knocking the chair backwards. He strode over to the window, carefully avoiding staining his black robes in Lunitari's scarlet radiance, and, swiftly, harshly, he drew the heavy black curtains across the window, effectively cutting off the path of the moonlight.

_Disappointed…ha! If anyone had a right to be disappointed, surely it was him? He, whom the gods had seen fit to bless with ill health and a decrepit body, this oh so_ lovely_ weakness of the lungs that rendered him invalid, gasping with a mouthful of blood by the time each fit ended. Who had been gifted with these accursed hourglass eyes…to see the ravages of time everywhere he looked. To teach him compassion, so they said…Par Salian really was quite an idiot. Compassion? How in the nine hells had he believed this would teach him compassion? The world was dying, grey and bleak all around him, all he could smell was decay, all he could taste was ash, and from this he supposed to learn _humility and kindness_?! Curse them all, he'd show __**them**__ what disappointment was like!_

And, with that vehement thought twisting itself through his mind, he returned to his desk and righted his chair. Sitting down, he turned the spellbook back to the page he had been reading prior to his fit of rage. The anger, the fury had lent him new motivation and spurred him on to study with increased ardor.

Within the next twenty minutes, he had learned the spell, committed it to memory, and was able to cast it successfully.

A derisive smirk curled itself onto his features. Yes, he'd show them all what disappointment was like. He'd give them a taste of their own so-called "medicine," see how they liked it. And when he was finished with them, he'd create a new world, a better world, a world where he was worshipped, adored, and feared in equal respects.


	3. Some Things Never Change

Raistlin, sat, hunched over the notes on his desk, fingers curling tightly around the swan-feathered quill as the cough wracked his entire body. Phlegm and mucus balled up within his throat, and he could feel his chest tightening spasmodically as he struggled to draw breath. Blood flecked on his lips, and his hand shook with the force of the seizure, knocking over the nearby inkwell.

He was beginning to panic, never a good idea in such situations as these. Hyperventilation only served to close off his airways further, and black dots began to swim in front of his eyes.

And, suddenly, it was over. Raistlin fell back, gasping, as he regained his composure. Ink had spilled across his notes, effectively ruining them. Or, at least, they would be ruined, if not for the magic. But Raistlin was far too tired to implement even that simple spell after his fit – the biggest one he had had since switching his allegiance to the God of Black Magic.

He was better, much better at controlling the magic nowadays. But there were times, even now, when it got the better of him. And he had been a bit off his guard lately, devoting his consciousness towards learning material quickly and effectively, not controlling the power that would ultimately implement the things he studied.

A mistake, a foolish mistake. He would not make it again. Magic needed to be constantly nurtured and controlled. Otherwise the fire coursing within him would spread, unhindered, consuming him until he was left a withered, unstable husk.

Had he not seen what happened when the magic was neglected? After all, his own mother, Rosamun, had been a prime example…

_No,_ thought Raistlin firmly, shutting his eyes and steadying his breathing. _Do not think of her._

_Why not?_ His mind shot back snidely. _It's only the truth….and, after all, an important lesson. No, remember her, and use those memories to your advantage. Remember exactly what happens when you let the magic control you, instead of the other way around. And see to it that you manage the gift accordingly._

Raistlin shut his eyes, steadying his breathing. Yes, it was wise to remember – to forget is to live in denial and naivety. To remember is to learn.

He could remember clearly Rosamun's infamous fits, her crazed ravings and her wanderings throughout town, how she would leave the house and meander over to the neighbors until he and Caramon had found her, led her home…she had made a spectacle of herself, not just herself, but also of her children, the subject of much gossip around Solace. There were times she hadn't even recognized her son, didn't know where she was, or even **who** she was. But still Raistlin had taken care of her…why? Because she was his mother, and the only one in the family to whom he felt he could truly relate. His twin, Caramon, was a numbskull, his sole ambitions being to obtain food and find a girl to warm his bed at night. His half-sister, Kitiara, was cold, self-possessed, and headstrong. Her willpower and commitment lent her some similarity to her brother, but their thinking, their motives were different. Kitiara saw power only in the sword, and viewed magic and the more cunning, manipulative tactics Raistlin employed to be beneath her.

_Although, _Raistlin thought sardonically, _she was always quite manipulative herself. But then again, Kitiara was never the sort for reflectiveness and deep thought._

Meanwhile, his father didn't understand him either, always off doing work to scrounge up a few scraps of bread for the table, but even when he was home, he found Raistlin's interests, his aptitude for magic, to be beyond his understanding.

Then there was Rosamun. Rosamun, the only one in the family to also have magical ability, her mental instability a constant reminder of what he might one day become if he didn't learn to control the magic. As such, he loved her as his mother, loved her as an embodiment of things he didn't quite understand yet, but simultaneously hated and feared her. Still, he cared for her, gently and tenderly, helping her through her fits and seeing to it that she ate and slept.

_But even she, weak and inept as she was, could never fully comprehend my interests, my goals, my ambitions. No, even she didn't understand me. _

No one ever really had, had they? But that was fine by Raistlin. He didn't want to be understood by others. The only one who should understand him was himself – his private affairs were none of the concern of others. Everyone else was quite happy with this arrangement, even Caramon, whose love was only suffocating and oppressing, not understanding.

Raistlin drew himself away from his thoughts. The memories had ceased being productive, and were now preventing him from continuing with his work. Righting the inkwell, which had been steadily allowing the rest of the ink to spill out, he gestured over the paper, murmuring "delu solisar," as he did so. The excess ink evaporated off the paper in wisps and disappeared from the desk, leaving his notes behind, restored, and the fine wood unstained.

Looking over his notes, Raistlin nodded satisfied, making a small addendum to the bit about lightning spells, noting that the usage of any external magical devices during execution of the spell might interfere with the magic and lead to certain death. An obvious notation, but Raistlin lived for thoroughness.

He sprinkled a bit of sand over the page, and waited a second for it to dry while he stoppered the inkwell. Rolling up the scroll, he tied it neatly with a bit of black ribbon, and set it aside on the desk.

He would bring it down to the laboratory later, to set it aside with the rest of his notes. For now, though, he had been working non-stop for nearly 24 hours. As much as he despised sleep, viewing it as a waste of valuable time, it was necessary for him to rest at least somewhat, lest his work should suffer. He pushed away from the desk, and swept out of the room, passing by two of the pallid, disembodied heads of the Guardians stationed at his door.

They remained at the entrance to the study, but another swept out of the shadows to trail dutifully behind him.

Raistlin shivered, almost unconsciously. The chill from the spectral guardian pierced his skin, straight to the bone. He was used to living in cooler conditions, after all, even the fire in his study barely warmed the room, but this cold was unnatural. He doubted he'd ever get used to it.

Turning to the Guardian, he said, coldly, "I think I can manage to make it to my chambers safely. I am, after all, the Master of Past and Present, currently the most powerful force in this world."

The Guardian bowed its head, respectfully, reverently, "_It isss my duty to protect you, Massster…_

Raistlin snorted derisively. "And, as you just said, I am your Master, and I am telling you I can handle myself quite ably. Now, leave me."

The Guardian inclined its head again, and, dutifully, retreated back into the darkness.

Black robes sweeping behind him, Raistlin continued on his way. No moonlight streamed through the windows this night, as he made his way to his room. Only Nuitari shone in the sky tonight, and the dark moon cast no light. Thus, Raistlin walked in the darkness and silence, undisturbed and alone.

Some things never change.

_Any of you notice what type of feather Raistlin's quill had? If you've read __The Soulforge,__ you'll know that that wasn't coincidental - it's put there purposefully. :D_

_Hope you enjoyed the chapter. The next one should be up either later this week, or sometime by next week. ;)_


	4. One Way Only

At the same time Raistlin was following the shadowy corridor to his bedchamber, contemplating the events that had made his life a living hell, Par-Salian, thousands of miles away in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, was mulling over his own tale of woe.

The Conclave was a mess. Ever since the formal return of the gods, with the return of _dragons_, chaos had ensued – new enmity arose, especially between the White and Black Robes, and allegiances were either strengthened, weakened, or switched entirely. More and more people began to leave the Tower, offering their services across Krynn. While people remained suspicious of magic, their suspicion had diminished somewhat with the return of the gods, and magic-users found that people were more open to accepting their services. Plus, while the War of the Lance was over, some peoples still made an effort to strengthen their fortifications and amass larger armies – that they might be better prepared if another war broke out. A very wise choice, in Par-Salian's opinion, peace had indeed been "restored," but even so, if the dwarves scratched their beards the wrong way, the whole of Silvanesti would be on Thorbardin in an instant. Thus, magic-users, especially war-mages, found that their services were in high demand.

The people who** did** remain at the Tower were constantly irritable, twitchy, and harried. As the leader of the Conclave, many looked to Par-Salian for advice, for direction, but, of course, he had no idea what to do. There was nothing **to **do, after all, only to sit, wait, and prepare for the worst. But, of course, no one liked being told to **wait.** Those who came to Par-Salian for advice rarely followed it, and usually left more frustrated than they had come.

Meanwhile, the Night of the Eye was fast approaching, and Par-Salian had his work cut out trying to find eligible applicants and, even more difficult, mages to test them. Fortunately, some of the older, more experienced mages had remained at the Tower, less eager to go out and join in pointless bloodshed than the younger, brasher mages. Par-Salian would turn to these to help him with the Test, but there were so few, so very few….

In addition to all that, he had to worry about Raistlin Majere.

Raistlin Majere – Master of Past and Present, the most powerful force on Krynn behind the gods, who could easily wipe out the Conclave in less than a week. Who could start a war so devastating, that none would survive. Who could, if he so wanted, (and Par-Salian knew for a fact that Raistlin was drawn to power so like a moth to a flame) rule Krynn in an instant…

So why, **why** was he cooped up in his dark tower at Palanthas, completely silent and, in all appearances, complacently peaceful?

No, if Par-Salian knew Raistlin Majere at all, he knew that the mage was planning something. Something very big. And he was getting more and more nervous with each passing second, not knowing what it was.

Not only was he concerned for his own well-being, although, he could be assured he wasn't number one on Raistlin's "favorite people list." He had, after all, cursed the young mage with golden skin, and hourglass eyes, to see all of time's passing in a few seconds. He had thought, he had hoped, it would teach him compassion and humility.

It hadn't. If anything, it had only made him even more bitter and resentful, made him even more disgusted with the mortality of life.

No, if Raistlin Majere succeeded in…whatever it was that he was planning, there was no doubt in Par-Salian's mind that he would be made to suffer greatly for his transgressions against the mage.

Par-Salian sighed, and reached up to cover his face with his hands tiredly. He wasn't just worried for himself though, although, if he was being honest, he was a bit…concerned about his own welfare. No, he was worried for the rest of Krynn too. They had no idea what peril they were in at this very minute. Oh, they might amass their armies, and proudly share a toast to their power and success, to their "impenetrable" defenses, but they would not stand a chance against Raistlin. He could bring down their walls with a single word, cast magical fire to sear the skin of their soldiers, and burn their armies where they stood.

He needed to know what Raistlin was up to.

But how? He couldn't just go up and ask, nor could he cast a spell of seeing over the Tower, which was protected by both Nuitari and its master himself. Although, why Nuitari continued to protect the Tower was anyone's guess. Surely even the God of Black Magic had a right to be worried about what his young Black Robe was up to?

The ways of the gods are mysterious, and Nuitari's nature especially so. Par-Salian didn't devote much more thought to that tangent, he had more important things to think about.

So how to learn about what was happening? An apprentice, perhaps? Would Raistlin even _accept_ an apprentice? How would he even contact the mage – there was no way of getting inside the Grove without the master's permission, much less the Tower itself.

A kender might be able to get through, or at least get close enough to draw the mage's attention. If Par-Salian remembered correctly, Raistlin had a kender friend…Tibbletoe Bumberfoot, or something. All kender names sounded rather ridiculous to Par-Salian, and they tended to blend together a bit in his mind. All the same, he was rather fond of kender. Their bright, innocent, happy-go-lucky nature was really quite refreshing after being locked up in a tower full of crotchety old mages.

_Yes, so I can send the kender to take a message to Raistlin…finding the kender will be a bit of a problem, as will actually getting him to go straight to the Tower and back without "borrowing" any of my possessions or getting side-tracked…but what would I say?_ _"Hello, Raistlin, I figured you're working on a scheme to take over the world, so I thought I'd send over an apprentice to spy on you."_ Any which way he said it, just asking Raistlin to take on an apprentice would arouse suspicion. The perceptive young mage would see through his ploy instantly. And just who would he send? No one would be willing to go near the Tower, especially when there were so many opportunities for work. Never mind how much there was to learn, it was too dangerous, no one would accept the job, no one would be clever and powerful enough to be able to do the job well, to learn Raistlin's motives subtly, no one, no one, except…

Dalamar the Dark, recently tested, young, powerful, clever, and **very** promising. And also very power-hungry. Par-Salian was sure, that if he asked, Dalamar would take on the task, if not just to learn from the infamous Master of Past and Present. But could he trust Dalamar to stay loyal to the Conclave, to not just join Raistlin to further his own quest for power? Could he trust him to be subtle enough, to stay alive, to learn, and to send messages back to the Conclave without attracting unwanted attention?

Par-Salian didn't know. But it was a risk he would have to take. Raistlin might see through his ploy, but he would sugarcoat his message, cover it in euphemisms to stroke the young mage's growing ego.

Par-Salian grabbed a roll of paper from the side of his desk, and grasped the finely pointed, griffin-feathered quill. Poising it above the paper, he thought for a minute, then started to write.

_Archmagus Raistlin Majere,_

_The Night of the Eye is fast approaching and will occur on the eleventh of July, as you most likely already know. We have many promising applicants ready to be Tested, and would be honored if you came to witness the Test. Beyond this, we are curious as to how the war has affected Palanthas, and would like to know if you have any knowledge regarding the Dragonarmies stationed near to the city. We have intelligence regarding the metallic and colored dragons, if you are willing to trade for information. We hope that you will decide to attend the Test._

_P.S. In addition to this, a young mage, Dalamar, has shown great aptitude in the field of magic, and has expressed a desire to be apprenticed to a mage of great power and standing. He would be greatly delighted to serve as your apprentice._

_Signed, _

_Par-Salian: Head of the Conclave at the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth_

Par-Salian sat back, and re-read the letter, than re-read it again. And again. He had placed the bit about Dalamar as a post script purposefully, to make it seem as though he was adding it as more of a second thought, and had made it seem as though he really just wanted to know about the Dragonarmies. Par-Salian had very little interest in learning about the actions of the Dragonarmies at the moment, and even if he did, he had other ways of obtaining such information. It was just a cover. A thin cover, at that, though.

Would Raistlin see through it?

Perhaps. But it was a risk he would have to take.

He stood up, and walked over the hearth, gathering some sand from a bowl on the mantel, and threw it into the fire, calling out "Dalamar the Dark," as he did so. Then he returned to his seat, steepling his fingers and staring directly ahead while he waited for the dark elf to arrive.

It was a good thing the elf was less reckless than his colleagues. Unlike the other young mages, he had chosen to remain behind at the Tower of Wayreth, to study. It made Par-Salian's task much easier.

Suddenly, the flames flickered, violently, and a figure emerged from the spacious interior of the fireplace.

Dalamar stepped out from the confines of the hearth, bowing his hooded head respectfully and sliding his hands together underneath the black velvet of his robes.

"You called, Master?"

"Yes," said Par-Salian, eyeing the young mage through narrowed eyes, and tamping down the urge to bite his lip worriedly. Would he accept? Would he be able to do the job? Would he –

Par Salian cut off the train of thought. It was doing him no good to worry, and, meanwhile, Dalamar was waiting to be told the reason for the summons.

Par-Salian cleared his throat, as the elf regarded him curiously through black, glittering eyes. "Yes, I called you. I have a task for you, if you will accept it. You know of Raistlin Majere, Archmagus of the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas?"

Dalamar looked at Par-Salian dubiously. "Yes, of course, I have heard of Archmagus Raistlin Majere," he said, waiting for Par-Salian to get to the point. **Everyone** knew about Raistlin Majere. After all, he was the most powerful mage to ever walk on Krynn. That one day, _he _might know such power…Dalamar's eyes gleamed suddenly, greed and envy clearly visible in his features, but in an instant it was gone, replaced once more by a cold, emotionless mask.

But Par-Salian had seen the look.

And he worried.

But for now, he needed to know what Raistlin Majere was up to. And for that, he needed to trust Dalamar.

He could only hope that he was making the right decision.


	5. Logic Is Void in Dreams

_Gah, sorry it's been so long since an update. Life got really hectic, but that's not really any excuse. I'm gonna be working my butt off to update my other fanfics before I start getting angry messages (Lol, wouldn't that be nice, if I actually got angry messages about not updating my stories;) ) Anywho, here's the next chapter! I really need to get better at subtlety - Margaret Weis was much better at writing Raistlin in that she left some things to the reader to figure out. Not me, I just barge in and try to explain everything at once. *sigh* Must get better at avoiding that. Alright, before I continue self-flagellating, let's get on with the chapter shall we! I think you've waited long enough, lol. _

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><p>Raistlin's night terrors had never stopped.<p>

If anything, they had only grown more prominent since he had moved into the Tower, the cold and dark, coupled with isolation, had done nothing to ease the restlessness of his sub-consciousness.

And, at night, his mental barriers were lowered, allowing for snippets of thoughts and fears to creep across his dreams, leaving the recesses of his mind where they had been locked up and ignored.

Another reason, aside from the fact that it was a complete and utter waste of time, why Raistlin despised sleep.

Thinking of Rosamun earlier in the day hadn't helped to put in a calm state of mind before bed, either. She entered his dreams, cold and accusing.

"You have betrayed me. You chose magic, when you should have stayed home to look after me. You killed me. You are no son of mine."

Raistlin tossed and turned on the bed, muttering words of protest. He couldn't have stayed home, the magic, the magic! Why didn't they understand, none of them could understand, the magic was all he had. He had warned them against Judith, but they had not listened. How was it his fault for what had happened?

Rosamun's eyes, eyes that were the same shade of blue as Raistlin's own had been before the Test, turned pleading. "Come home, my son, come home! Come home!," her arms outstretched, hoping, begging, "Come home!"

Raistlin's dream-addled mind did not register the abrupt change in attitude. He shook his head wildly, as though trying to clear it, eyes closed, and forced the word out. "No."

Rosamun clung to him, pulling him, clutching at the white novice robes he still wore.

Raistlin's eyes snapped open, golden hourglass pupils fixing on his mother's fogged, entreating expression. "NO!"

He saw her more clearly then, it was as though with the force of that word everything snapped back into focus. She wasted away before his accursed vision, skin wrinkling and shriveling, hair rotting and falling out. Her eyes because sunken hollows, her face pallid and worn. And her arms, even as they aged and withered before his eyes, still reach out hopefully, her eyes gazed at him imploringly…

Raistlin turned away from the sight and ran. He ran away from his mother, away from Solace. His robes tore on brambles as he scrambled through the forest, cutting his skin and staining the white fabric a deep crimson. He ran blindly, unseeing, and stopped only when he ran headfirst into a hard object.

Stumbling backwards, thinking he had collided into a tree, Raistlin swiveled and made to run in another direction, but a hand reached out and clapped him on the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

Raistlin now knew what had stopped him. He turned to look at his brother.

Caramon looked at him, grinning. "What's up, Raist? Look, I caught a rabbit," Caramon lifted the aforementioned animal. "We can cook it in that herb you always carry on you...what's it called again?" Caramon's features twisted with the effort of thought. "M-Mar…."

"Marjoram, the herb is marjoram!" Raistlin snapped angrily, trying to pull himself free of his brother's grip. "Let me go, you great lummox!"

Caramon immediately removed the offending hand. "Sure, sure, Raist, sorry. Say, is something wrong? You look a bit…pale. And you're cut, too," Caramon pointed to the numerous scratches littering his brother's arms and legs.

Raistlin snarled. "I'm fine! I don't need you, go away! You're always bothering me, always pestering," Raistlin assumed a mocking whine. "What's wrong, Raist? I'm sorry, Raist. I don't understand, Raist."

Caramon jerked his hand back, looking hurt. "Well, if you feel that way…."

"Of course I feel that way, you fool! Have you been blind, deaf, and dumb all these years? Leave me, now!"

Caramon's face tightened into a hard, cool mask. He turned away from his brother and continued away, carrying the rabbit with him."

Raistlin watched him, growing angrier with every step his brother took. The fool! Always over his shoulder, always looking to help, always getting in the way. Without taking the time to think about what he was doing, he reached into his pouch, never noticing that the blood stains on his robes were spreading and darkening…turning the cloth a deep, almost black color.

"Caramon?"

Caramon turned back to his brother, the grim mask breaking almost immediately to reveal a hopeful expression. Raistlin wanted to laugh at his brother's stupidity. How they could ever be related…

"Yeah, Raist?"

Raistlin settled his fingers across the snakeskin, feeling the cool shell of the egg beneath.

"You should have listened to me the first time."

Caramon was oblivious. "What, Raist? I don't unde-"

Raistlin ground out the words, half-triumphant, half-furious with his brother for finding the time to make that one, last stupid remark. No matter, Caramon would soon bother him no longer.

"Digas ne vimi!"

A giant hand materialized, stretching out towards Caramon.

His twin yelled in shock and fear, and tried to escape, but Raistlin only smiled mockingly, and directed the hand forward. It grasped Caramon and tightened, crushing the life out of his brother, snapping and breaking the bones. Blood dripped over the ephemeral image of the hand, his brother's gut-wrenching scream pierced the forest. It did not end, just went on, and on, and on, as the hand continued to squeeze, and through the ringing in his ears, Raistlin could hear laughter, cruel and sadistic.

With a start, he realized it was his own.

Raistlin snapped upright, panting slightly. His skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he discovered, much to his chagrin, that he was shivering. The covers had been kicked to the floor, but Raistlin knew that that wasn't the reason why.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blotting out the memory of the dream. Caramon was alive and well in Solace, probably drinking gallons of mead and slobbering over some half-dressed barmaid. He had not killed his brother. Rosamun had not disowned him. But the dream had seemed so real…

Raistlin suddenly opened his eyes, and his lips twisted in a thin, mocking smile. "What do I care what they think of me? What do I care what happens to them? They are my concern no longer. Let them worry about themselves, and let me worry about myself - after all," he added, thinking of Takhisis, "it's not as if I'm at a loss for things to worry about."

Raistlin got up and glanced out the window. Still night, and, given Nuitari's position in the sky, he had slept for about only two hours. Still, he had no desire to return to his bed any time soon. Two hours would have to do.

He turned back to the bed, and dragged the coverlet back, forcing himself to make to make the bed neatly, and using the opportunity to regain his composure.

Despite the words he had said before about not caring, he found that, even when he left the room after making the bed, he was still shivering, slightly.

* * *

><p><em>How'd you like it? By the way, I forgot to mention this in the pre-chapter note: Thank you so much for all the reviews and kudos! Specifically, thank you for the favorite MissMissive, and the follows from Orichalcos, OrthoEllis, and queenevil2005. It's things like these that keep me going! :D :D<em>


	6. The Prison Critic

The prison of Caergoth really could use some work.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the guards' efforts, Tasslehoff reflected. After all, he had had a rather long journey, and the soles of his feet were practically worn through. How thoughtful of them to pick him up off the side of the road and give him a ride in that carriage of theirs…never mind that it had been rather difficult to see through the bars and that the stench of the interior had, quite frankly, made him want to retch into the lap of the sodden drunk sitting next to him – it's the thought that counts.

Still, Tasslehoff thought, standing up with his feet planted on the ground and his hands at his hips in righteous indignation. The accommodations left much to be desired. The walls of the prison were crumbling, and vines were creeping through the window carved into the wall above the bed. If it could even be called a bed. More like a sad, remnant of a bed-like structure. Metal bars fit together to create a fragile skeleton, on which a thin, torn up mattress lay. Whenever Tasslehoff even dared to try and sit on it, it creaked ominously and shuddered under his meager weight. Ah well. The floor was probably more comfortable anyway.

And that wasn't even accounting for the smell. If Tasslehoff had thought that the smell of the pissed-in hay from the carriage was bad, this was ten times worse. The chamber pot in the corner had, at some point, cracked, spilling its contents all over the floor. Most likely it had happened in winter time, the cold making the earthenware pot brittle and delicate, until the pressure from frozen….ick….forced it to come apart. Since then (and it was now late summer) no one had bothered to clean up the mess, or get a new chamber pot. Small piles of refuse lay in heaps near the broken remains, swimming in-

Tasslehoff heaved suddenly, broken out of his indignant stance. Fortunately, he hadn't had much to eat for quite a while now, and nothing came up. Otherwise, he would have two problems: 1. The smell would be worsened even **further **and 2. he would be devoid of a clean place to sit.

This had gone on quite enough. No matter how kind the guards thought they were being by giving him free board, it was time they were alerted about the state of things here.

Tasslehoff peaked out the bars of the cell door.

"Hello? Helloooo? Guards? Hello? I just wanted to have a word about the accommodations here. I mean, I appreciate the service, but, as one who has visited quite a few prisons in the past, I can tell you, you really need to _step it up here._ I mean, come on, can't you sme—"

"Shut up!" the guard (Tasslehoff had heard one of his colleagues refer to him as Eremin) stationed at the end of the hall bellowed, trying, unsuccessfully, to cover his ears and nose simultaneously.

Noticing this, Tasslehoff decided that a helpful gesture on his part might do to facilitate a similar act of kindness on the behalf of his host. "You know, if you bring your arm up around your head to cover your ears, then you could use the other hand to cover your nose."

Eremin glared daggers at Tasslehoff and didn't move his hands, seeming to decide that if he just ignored the kender completely, maybe he would shut up.

That, of course, is never the best idea when dealing with kender. Ignore them, and that will just give them leeway to do whatever it was they wanted in the first place.

And Tasslehoff was no different than other kender. Seeing that the guard was seemingly otherwise occupied, he decided to take the matter into his own hands.

Tass turned away from the door and climbed onto the bed, ignoring the creaking and shifting beneath his feet, reached up so that he was level with the window.

The bars were too close together for even him to slip past, but if they were as in just a state of disrepair as the rest of the cell, then perhaps…

Experimentally, Tasslehoff reached out to shake one of the bars. Nothing. Well, just his luck, that the one thing he **needed** to be broken in this cell was whole and strong. Maybe the other bars?

Nope. Every bar Tasslehoff tried was firmly wedged in place, without even the slightest hint of give.

"Giving up" is not in a kender's vocabulary, though. Agilely hopping off the bed, Tass ran back over to the door, reaching into his sock to pull out a spare lockpick (the guards had confiscated his pouches, despite Tass's protests that he didn't require bell services.

Time to put those ventriloquism lessons from Raistlin to the test. Clearing his throat, and trying (unsuccessfully the first few times) to deepen his voice, Tasslehoff threw his voice to the top of the stairwell, at the bottom of which his guard was stationed.

"Eremin! Hey come up here, Averon's just scored us some mead from the Haystrewn Inn!"

Tasslehoff waited with bated breath to see if his plan would work. After all, he was just using names that he had picked up along the way to string together a half-molded attempt at freedom.

Fortunately, it seemed that luck had decided that it had passed Tasslehoff by a few too many times, and chose to threw him a bone. Erebin, hearing the supposed voice of his colleague, started out of his reverie in which he had been diligently cleaning out his nose, and grinned widely, licking his lips at the mention of mead. Hurriedly shouting, "Coming!" he turned to stomp up the stairs, leaving the hallway empty.

Tasslehoff worked quickly. Fitting the lockpick into the door, he jiggled it around a bit before he heard a soft audible click. He pushed on the door, and it swung open heavily, but the tiny kender was able to catch it and heave it back before it swung into the adjacent wall.

Now came the hard part – getting his pouches and getting out of this prison before the guards could find or stop him.

Tasslehoff grinned. Free rooms, free food, and free entertainment! Really, this place was too much.

(line break - by the way, I love how sometimes the site allows me to use line breaks, but other times it doesn't, and the circumstances for being allowed to use actual line breaks seem completely random. Only negative thing I really have to say about this site, since joining though, so I suppose I can put up with it.)

_Ha ha he..hrm...what? No, this chapter is just on time, I just updated last week after all...what's that? Its been SIX WEEKS SINCE I LAST UPDATED?! Holy Odiferous Cockatrices (that's what OC stands for right?). Ack, don't kill me, I'm so sorry for the long wait. So much for updating every week. Grr. Well, from now on, I'll be more diligent as far as keeping to my deadlines. Again, I apologize. Profusely. _

_On another note - thank you so much for your continued reviews and support! Specifically, I'd like to thank idjit with a blue box (and seriously, awesome username) for the follow. Believe it or not, it's things like these that keep me coming back, even if my returns are sometimes...belated._


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